


Messengers of Death

by MamoruSanSan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multiple Homicides, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 16:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6292180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamoruSanSan/pseuds/MamoruSanSan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After faking his death to survive Moriarty's threats on his friends, Sherlock's interest in the day to day crimes receded. Instead of taking cases that interested him, he shut himself away and spent his times in his mind palace, rethinking old cases. But Lestrade has approached with a new case. At the scene of the crime lays a new killer's calling card. And with a high-profile death, he needs his best man on the job: Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Messengers of Death

**Author's Note:**

> This is yet another story I had on FFN, and I decided to revamp it, since my writing style has changed. There are many differences between the two stories, and I intend on changing the other chapters as I find the time.

Night fell on Islington on the third day of the sixth month. Off to the side of a deserted road, a lone motel stood silently, its only company the various odd couples inside. The motel itself was derelict, paint peeling off the wall here, mold growing on the ceiling there. On both levels of the building, the lamp lights would flicker on and off at random intervals, perfectly setting the scene for a horror movie. The stairs to the second floor creaked and swayed, so that whomever had the misfortune of prodding up them would have the feeling that they were balancing on a rope bridge.

On the second floor, the door furthest from the death-wish stairs slammed open, sending vibrations down the already weak wall. A scantily clad woman rushed out, stumbling over her heels. Her breathing was fast and sharp, and her mascara running down her face as she collided into the banister.

“Help! Please! Somebody!” she cried out, as loud as her lungs would let her. But under her weight, the railing snapped quickly, sending her to the ground head first. It would be a whole hour before the police sirens could be heard down the street.

 

* * *

  

The flat was silent at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes contentedly stretched out on the seat of his couch, his eyes closed. How he missed the silence. He could lay for days, no food, no water, with just his mind to keep him company. Today, he was blissfully imagining how he would have easily solved the Ripper cases had he been alive in that era.

But the silence was short lived.

“Sherlock!” his ears perked at the sound of his name followed by a slam of the door downstairs. He could hear the combat books trudging up the wooden stairs one at a time, and as much as he wished he could ignore it, soon the owner of the voice burst in through their door.

“Sherlock.” John Watson said, more calmer now that he was in closer proximity to his target. The consulting detective calmly opened one eye.

“John.” Sherlock responded, closing his eye again. He placed his hands together in meditation, resting them under his chin. He wanted silence and that was exactly what the good doctor would not give him.

“Sherlock, are you listening to me?” John’s irritated voice wafted through his ears again. His concentration broken, Sherlock sighed and sat up, opening his eyes fully to focus on his friend. John’s stern face stared back at him, as if trying to pierce through his soul. “Sherlock, you haven’t taken a case in weeks!” he said, his hands on his hips, exasperated. “I can barely support myself from what I get at the clinic, and you’re just sitting there, half asleep!”

“I am reviewing old cases.” Sherlock retorted, as he stood up and made his way to the cube seat. John scoffed and headed for the kitchen. Sherlock grabbed his violin and bow, and drew the bow across the strings. Screeches and scratches echoed throughout the flat. In the kitchen, a shiver went down John’s spine. He let out a sigh for the umpteenth time since he had moved in with Sherlock Holmes, the infamous consulting detective. He should have learned by now that there was no trying to get the man’s attention. John tried to block out the sound, but when it started sounding like a dying kitten, John was determined to put his foot down.

“SHERLOCK-“ he started. Before he could get any further, his flatmate jumped up from the chair and rushed to the window, placing the violin down on his desk. Curious, John joined him.

“Lestrade is here.” Sherlock muttered, seeing the car approach outside.

“How could you tell before he had even pulled up?” John asked, his previous anger already forgotten.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade’s car is overdue for its checkup, I would guess. You can hear his breaks squelching from two floors up, and that sound has always been followed by Lestrade barging into our home.” Sherlock flew to the door and locked it. He peeked through the peephole in the door. “Good, Ms. Hudson is distracting him with her nonsense. If Lestrade is here, that can only mean that the police were out of their depth again. And the last thing I want is to work with them.”

A frustrated John joined Sherlock at the door. “Take the case, Sherlock. Whatever it is.” he pleaded. Not only could they use the money, he had been slowly going insane working at the clinic day in and day out, with no kind of reprieve. Those cases had been the only thing that were keeping him stable in his life.

_Rap Rap Rap_

“Sherlock, dear, the nice Inspector is here to see you.” Ms. Hudson’s voice came through from the other side. Sherlock tried to resist the urge to slam his palm into the wood. Of course she let him in. “Sherlock?”

He cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry, Sherlock’s not here right now, Ms. Hudson.” he said, in his best imitation of Watson. Next to him, John’s brow furrowed even further, but he didn’t make a sound. Besides, there was no way that would fool her-

“Oh, why is the door locked, John?” they could hear her voice again, the doorknob rattling. John went to unlock the door before Sherlock slapped his hand away. “John? Are you in there?” Sherlock brought his hand down to grip the knob tightly so it couldn’t be jiggled unlocked.

“Oh, this is ridiculous. Donovan.” Lestrade’s voice could be heard from further down the hallway. With a BANG, the secondary door into their kitchen opened forcefully. In came Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and his trusty Sergeant, Sally Donovan. She had a mildly pleased look on her face, as if she immensely enjoyed breaking down his door.

“Heya, Freak.” she said, as she came into the room, a wide smile spreading. The only thing she was missing was the warmth that usually accompanied such a pretty face. Sherlock rolled his head back, cracking the joints in his neck and looked at the intruding pair. Lestrade looked like his usual self: dull, boring, and old. Sherlock sighed and retreated to his chair, offering the other to the DI. The gruff grey-haired man took it, thankfully.

“How can I help you today, Detective Inspector?” he asked, resigned to his fate. 

“Well, you could start by stopping with these childish antics.” Lestrade said, crossing his arms. “We wouldn’t come to you unless we absolutely needed to. I could have you arrested for obstruction of justice.” He waited for a reaction from his consultant, but Sherlock simply stared back at him blankly, waiting for the point. Lestrade sighed and turned to Donovan. “Show him the picture.”

With all the disdain she could muster, Sally pulled out a picture from the inside of her leather jacket and threw it to Sherlock. He caught it daintily and, after tearing his eyes away from Sally’s twitching cheek, he glanced at it.

The picture was of a body laying spread eagle on what looked like a hotel bed, the victim’s clothes having been slashed in multiple places. The picture couldn’t do the scene justice, but it seemed that blood splatter from the dead man had been splashed on the back wall in an arc, lines of red trailing down to the headboard. An open suitcase was in the corner of the photo, although it wasn’t enough in the picture to tell what was inside. On top of the tattered clothes, a small square note of some kind seemed to have been cautiously placed. He raised an eyebrow. The picture alone wouldn't be enough to perk his interest. He handed it to John, who took it without hesitation.

“And?” he asked. “You wouldn’t have called me if it was just a normal dead body. Is this about whatever it is that is laying on the body?” Lestrade nodded and pulled out a second photo, watching whether he had his consultant’s full attention yet. Sherlock took it, and it seemed to be a close up of what he had originally thought was a note.

Instead, it was a butterfly, carefully pinned to a small square piece of white paper. The butterfly had orange brown wings, with two dark spots near the inner fascia. Among the many factoids Sherlock had in his mind palace, butterflies happened to be in a file far, far in the attic of his brain. He had only been fascinated by them for a month in his teens, when Mycroft had locked him in the attic of their childhood home until he could figure out the puzzle to free himself. In the meantime, he studied the old encyclopedias that had been covered in dust and came out with much more knowledge about various sciences than he had wanted. He needed to drag it back from his own dusty attic of his mind. _Oh,_ Sherlock thought suddenly, t _his butterfly…_

“Do you think this is some new psychopath’s M.O.?” Lestrade interrupted his thought process, leaning in to look at the picture with him. 

“Augh, I almost had it! Shut up! Shut up!” Sherlock burst out suddenly. Lestrade leaned back, startled. Sherlock started to rap his knuckles along his temple. _What was it, what was it?_

Meanwhile, John approached the Detective Inspector. “What did you say this man’s name was?” he asked, gesturing with the photograph. Without even a beat or consulting his notes, Lestrade answered right away.

“Rory Integral.” He said, “an MP from Spelthorne. He had actually just gotten elected in to office a few years ago. Very popular with both men and women, if I recall.” John nodded, knowingly. He had only wanted to be sure it was really him. He gave the photo back to Sally and plopped down on his chair at the deck. Sherlock pulled himself away from his mind palace for a second, noticing John’s dismayed face.

“What’s the matter, John?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I knew him.” Watson muttered. “He was enlisted, but he quickly rose to an officer position. We became friends when we were first deployed to Afghanistan. When an IED blew up his caravan, he needed serious medical attention, and I offered to personally care for him for half a year. He was discharged soon after he gained the ability to walk again, with all honors. I hadn’t heard from him since.” 

Sherlock stared at John, torn between two thoughts. One side of him wanted to figure out the name of the butterfly that was gnawing at him from the inside. But the side of him that had been learning new emotions was trying to push him to comfort his friend. As one side won him over, he turned to Lestrade. 

“Northern Broken Dash.” he said, the ancient files in his mind palace finally coming forward. Lestrade stared at him quizzically. 

“What?”

“The butterfly, Lestrade. The butterfly is a Northern Broken Dash. Commonly found all over the US.” he spoke quickly, his interest finally perking up. Why a butterfly? He turned back to Lestrade. “Don’t tell me you’re calling me in simply because the man is government.” he said, scoffing.

“The House of Commons is placing this as a number one priority, so I have to put my best men on it.” Lestrade said, sighing heavily. “Unfortunately for me, that means that I need you.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair smugly. “But I am not one of _your_ men, Lestrade.” he said. “And I’m afraid a butterfly on a dead MP isn’t enough to get me interested.” Lestrade clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“There was also a girl.” he said.

“What girl?”

“An… escort.” Lestrade said, his face reddening slightly. Sherlock’s face perked up even more at the mention of that. A government official with a hooker. Always gleeful.

“Alright, I’ll do it. Where is it?” he asked, standing up and trudging to the coat rack. He grabbed his jacket and scarf and wrapped it tightly around him, still trying to contain the small spasms of excitement that were starting to take over his body. Lestrade, Donovan and Watson followed him out of the door.

“Warren and Carrow.” Lestrade said, jumping into the passenger seat of his vehicle as Sally got behind the wheel. Sherlock hailed a cab and he and his partner quickly gave chase to beat Lestrade to the scene of the crime.

Off the abandoned streets of Warren Street and Carrow Road, a little motel sat, surrounded by police tape and cop cars, the most busy it had been in years. The troupe got out of their respective vehicles (with John being the one left to tip the cabbie) and made their way under the yellow tape and towards a big red splatter on the ground near the motel.

“The victim in the room, as I mentioned before, is Rory Integral. a member of Parliament in the House of Commons. He came to this motel at approximately 8 last night, according to the front desk attendant.” Lestrade explained, pointing to a mustached man in overalls who was gruffly answering the police’s questions with one word answers. “Integral was not alone when he came, he was with a young lady who apparently called herself Taffy. That info alone was hard to get from this guy.” he said, frustrated. “From there, we gathered that they were staying in the room just above here, at the far end.” Sherlock paced near the blood-stained ground. He glanced up at the broken railing on the second floor, and then back to the red stain in the dirt. He kneeled down and ran his hand in the clumped dark dirt.

“If our victim died in the room, why are we standing at a different crime scene, Detective?” Sherlock asked. “And where is the body?” Lestrade turned towards a marquee tent off the road from the hotel.

“Our crime scene investigators brought her body in here to examine it.” he said, as they ducked under the flaps. On a makeshift surgery table, a body with a sheet over it was laid out. Lestrade pulled back the covers: a pale body of a young lady, the top of her head crushed in. “This is Taffy. The other staff members were able to vouch for that. Apparently this area was her digs, she would bring her clients here almost every night.” John approached the body, as if to examine her. Lestrade shook his head and covered her back up. “I still have to let my men examine her first. You understand.” John grunted and stepped back, crossing his arms. Lestrade continued. “Her voice was what woke others up from their slumber. One business man distinctly remembered someone screaming ‘Help!’ before he heard the sickly crunch of the bannister breaking.”

“You’re telling me, the only witness to the crime is dead?” Sherlock asked. The only one who had witnessed the crime. Oh, it was much more exciting when they had nothing to start with. Lestrade nodded solemnly. “No wonder you’re having problems. It’s not open and shut like you’re used to.”

“Listen here, Freak.” Sally Donovan chimed in angrily for the first time since they arrived. “You can either work with or without getting my shoe shoved up your arse-“ Lestrade put a hand on her shoulder, and she quieted, still glaring at the consulting detective. Sherlock shrugged it off.

“Alright then, I’m heading to the crime scene.” He said, giving one last look at Taffy. With a nod to John, the two made their way out of the tent and towards the motel once more. They braved the rickety stairs, making great care to not get their feet stuck in the missing floorboards on the second floor. Once they arrived, they noticed that most of the police tape was surrounding the last room towards the left. As they approached, Sherlock glanced quickly at the number plate on the door, room 221, and pushed the door open. The door opened smoothly, and he quickly ran his fingers around the frame of the door, trying to feel for frayed or splintered wood.

Almost as soon as he entered, he felt a sense of deja vu. Perhaps it was from having immersed his mind in the photo only moments prior, but the feeling was strong. The body was laying spread eagled on the bed, tattered clothes and all. The only thing missing was-

“They took the damn butterfly.” he muttered. He turned to his partner. “John. Let’s go.” he said, nodding towards the body. Pulling latex gloves from his pocket, he handed a pair to Watson and donned a pair himself. John stood silently for a moment, closing his eyes and saying a small prayer for his friend before starting his own part of the investigation.

Rory Integral was younger than Sherlock thought he would be, perhaps early 30’s. As John started to tear away the already torn clothing to check for internal bleeding, Sherlock sniffed the man’s auburn hair. He ran his fingers along his forehead, and tried to see if there was any moisture. John moved from the chest, which had multiple bruisings around the areas from where he had been slashed from blood pooling under the skin, to his eyes. The former Army Doctor pulled the man’s eyelids up, to reveal that both eyes were bloodshot red. 

Both men pulled away from the body and looked at the larger picture. Integral had multiple bruisings around his temple, arms and neck, away from the slashes in his body. Most of the marks around the neck seemed consistent with hand marks, and small ones at that. Leaving John to continue with the examination, Sherlock made a beeline for the luggage he had suddenly remembered being open in the picture.

Inside, he found about three days worth of clothing. Underneath were various files of governmental work. But that would be of no use for him. He grabbed all the things and tossed them away from the suitcase. He felt around the edges, trying to find some sort of secret compartment or layer. His nails caught on a small sewn patch in the bottom right corner of the inside of the suitcase, and excitedly, he yanked up as hard as he could.

But he only proceeded to destroy the suitcase. Nothing lay under the seam, just the metal part of the bag. Upset that it wasn’t a secret compartment, Sherlock stood and joined John back at the body.

“What do you think, John?” he asked.

“Sherlock, it’s hard. He was a friend.”

“I know. Did you find anything?”

John sighed. He took another long pause before starting. “It seems most of the bruising on his arms may have been defensive wounds. The slashes on his torso made him lose a lot of blood, but that wasn’t the cause of death, it seems. I would place the blame on blunt force trauma to the head, since his eyes are bloodshot, and a very common cause for this are multiple shots to the head, causing hemorrhaging due to ruptured blood vessels behind the eyes. There were strangulation marks as well, which, based on how stiff the body is and the body temperature, seems to indicate that he was strangled before he was bashed on the head. Someone really wanted him dead. And I’d say it was either a woman, or a small man.”

Sherlock nodded, having gathered most of that information on his own as well. “We need to know more about the girl.” he concluded. “There was no forced break in. So either the assailant was laying in wait for them, or she did it and accidentally fell to her death.”

“Or they let the murderer in.” John said, bitterly. Sherlock shrugged at the suggestion. That was a possibility, but they would have had to know or trust the person to let them come in during such a liaison.

“Come, let’s go report back to Lestrade.”

The two partners braved their way back down the stairs once more time and walked the long way around the large blood splatter. The ground was dryer now than it had been earlier, as the blood was drying up.

“So?” Lestrade prompted when they approached him. 

“You removed the butterfly.” Sherlock immediately accused, before John could say anything about their findings. “I would have liked to have seen it actually at the crime scene.”

“We have it in evidence, you can see it later.” Lestrade interjected. Ignoring him, Sherlock started on about what they had found, repeating back almost exactly what John had said to him, while Lestrade and Donovan listened intently.

“And finally, the door jam had not been damaged or destroyed, so we concluded that either the assailant was laying in wait, or it was someone they knew. Or it was the girl.”

“The girl is dead, Sherlock.” Lestrade said, brow furrowed. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Of course I know that, Detective.” he said. “But that is still a possibility. The hand prints on the neck could be from someone her size. Perhaps she accidentally killed him, and that was why she was panicking. We won’t know unless we get more concrete proof.”

“Sherlock?” John said, from beside him. Sherlock turned to look at his friend. John was pointing at a pole a few good feet away from them. Sherlock followed his hand and eyes to see, at the top, a cluster of small cameras that pointed in every which way. He turned back and looked at the detectives with a raised eyebrow.

“You missed the cameras?” he asked, incredulously. Lestrade chuckled sheepishly. He turned to Donovan and motioned for her to get the footage as soon as possible and to bring it to them when it was ready. Soon, the four of them were huddled around a small laptop computer borrowed from the dingy motel. The connection was weak and staticky, but they could just barely make out the scene.

At 8:03, Integral and a young lady, probably Taffy, checked into the motel, Taffy hanging on to him for what looked like dear life. _She really was milking him for all she could take him_. Sherlock thought. At 8:10, they arrived at their door, already pushing each other up against the railing, against the wall. As they fumbled with the door keys, they also fumbled with each others mouths. The camera went dark for a while as the motion sensors went off, but at about 9:56 pm, the door to the room opened again, and out stepped a hooded figure. Fast forwarding through another dark period, the camera activated again at 10:47 when Taffy came out screaming, falling to her death. Donovan turned away at the sight.

“Rewind to before 10pm.” Sherlock commanded. Sally pulled back the recording to just before the cameras turned back on to see the hooded character. All roads pointed to this person. _Like I thought… lying in wait. But why?_ Sherlock started formulating ideas in his head.

“Rewind again.” John said, leaning forward. Sherlock looked at him quizzically. “Just watch him again.” John urged. The four stare at the screen more intently.

At 9:56, the door opened, and the hooded figure stepped out just as before. From there, at 9:57, the hooded figure made its way down the rickety stairs. And at 9:58, the hooded figure seemed to look up at the camera. It blew a kiss. As if to taunt whoever would be watching it.

Lestrade slapped the laptop shut angrily, narrowly missing Sally Donovan’s fingers. “He’s taunting us!” he said. Sherlock couldn’t agree, yet disagree, more.

“Yes, I would say they are.” he said, softly. “Strangulation is more a man’s way of killing, but this kind of meticulous planning and taunting, makes me think that this mastermind killer may be a woman, especially with the smaller markings around the neck. But what about the butterfly? What does the Northern Broken Dash mean?”

He trailed off as his mind started to whir. John thanked Lestrade and Donovan for their time and promised they would join them the next day to continue the investigation. He led Sherlock to the cab and the two headed back for 221B Baker Street. It had been a busy day, it was already starting to get dark outside.

Sherlock’s mind was in full gear by the time they arrived back home. This case had brought what he hadn't thought would be possible after the terror that Moriarty had caused a year prior: energy into his otherwise now boring deducing career. After Moriarty had killed himself in order to bring his own plan to fruition and Sherlock had found a way to survive, everything else had just seemed small and petty. 

But this. This was exciting. They have a murderer who seemed to want to get caught: those were the most tricky ones. They have a mystery within a mystery: the butterfly. What does it mean? Was it simply a calling card? Or was there more meaning behind it? As much as he knew he shouldn’t hope for another murder, Sherlock Holmes just wanted to be able to solve that mystery too, and he knew it would be almost impossible to do without seeing another one left at another scene of the crime.

John left Sherlock sitting in his chair, like he had been sleeping for the past few months. He placed his hands together and rested his chin on his fingertips, closing his eyes.

Tomorrow was another day. _Oh, this is exciting_.


End file.
